Just Another Innocent Victim
by Ash10
Summary: NOW UP, Chapter 2! Please R & R and thanks! Is there still room in war for Christmas? Sergeant Saunders is left with serious doubts.
1. Chapter 1

Just Another Innocent Victim

December 24th, 1944, Belgium

Night enveloped him in black comfortless arms while the bitter penetrating cold forced him deeper into the bomb crater in which he'd taken shelter, _more like a grave than anything else_, he thought, yet still better than the nothing above ground offered. Feeling a draft where the meager canvas tarp flapped open in the sharp wind, Saunders reached up, tugging it closed.

Flipping open his lighter he took a quick inventory of the men who shared his temporary home away from home. Kirby, head tucked down into his chest, arms wrapped mummy-like around his body, slept the sleep of a man who'd had precious little in at least 48 hours. Conserving energy, the slim BAR man wasted none in snoring or moving, in fact it seemed he barely breathed. Saunders resisted the urge to touch him, to reassure himself Kirby really was alive and not frozen to death, a fate meted out to far too many soldiers this day. A sudden involuntary twitch of a booted foot and Saunders relaxed.

Shoulder to shoulder with Kirby and jammed in between the BAR man and young Billy Nelson hunched Littlejohn. Bent into a seated fetal position, the big man overflowed onto his fellow soldiers, but neither appeared to mind. Shared body heat kept them all that much warmer. Nelson shifted position, leaning into his buddy, his face tucked into the crook of Littlejohn's arm; he whimpered in sleep. Littlejohn raised the arm, pulling Nelson close into his side, protectively holding the wounded boy near.

Saunders snapped the lighter shut and hunkered down into the meager warmth of his field jacket. He hurt, they all hurt. Bloodied to a man, hungry, cold, frightened, cut-off and behind enemy lines, as far as he could tell – it was a hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve.

December 22nd, 1944

Hurried into position to close a breach in the Ardennes, the soldiers of the 361st, King Company, found themselves temporarily attached to the 30th Infantry Division. They also found themselves left to their own resources. Pitifully outfitted in threadbare warm weather gear, they scrounged what equipment they could from those no longer in need of wool gloves, helmet liners or winter boots. Becoming scavengers of the dead turned more than one stomach.

"Grave robbers is all we are," Caje complained as he removed a much needed knit scarf from a dead G.I. "No better than grave robbers." Yet he, like his squad members, continued to take so that he might live.

"Looks like this guy's Mom musta knit these for him." Kirby observed, "Or maybe his girl. Wow!" At Saunders' frown, Kirby toned down his enthusiasm, "wow," he whispered as he held up a pair of gloves obviously not government issued. Narrow bands of alternating red and green gave the gloves a decidedly Christmas look. Kirby tried them on, flexing his fingers, reveling in the warmth and softness. They fit perfectly yet within moments he slowly, carefully removed them, crouched down and tucked them back into the dead soldier's jacket.

Looking up he noticed Sarge watching. "I can't," Kirby whispered, shaking his head. "I can't take 'em."

Saunders nodded. Even Kirby felt it, the disgust, the distaste, the sorrow of what they did, what they were forced, by circumstances, to do.

Searching through the knapsack of a dead German corporal, Billy Nelson's hand touched the softest, most inviting bit of warmth. Suddenly he let out a garbled shriek. "Somethin's alive in there! It moved! I felt it!"

Littlejohn shook his head. "You're just imaginin' things again, Billy! Can't be nothin' alive out here – not in this cold, well… nothin' aside from us and some krauts a course - too many krauts."

The big PFC nudged the German's body with a booted toe; the corpse was frozen solid. But Doubting Thomas or not, Littlejohn crouched at Nelson's side, his curiosity definitely piqued.

"It's alive in there, Littlejohn…honest! I wouldn't lie to you!" Billy's boyish excitement was contagious.

Littlejohn reluctantly pulled off one glove, closed his eyes and edged a hand into the knapsack. Sure enough, when he touched the soft furry object it squirmed. When he stroked it gently it made a noise – a low rumbling purr.

Littlejohn's jaw dropped and his face lit up like a Christmas tree. "It's a kitten! I'll be darned, Billy! It's a little kitten!"

Saunders hated to say no, but more than telling Billy he couldn't bring the kitten along, he hated being put on the spot by a combat soldier who should know better even than to ask. The tiny creature's pinched face peeked out from inside Billy's jacket, its eyes wide and trusting – just another innocent victim of war.

Saunders forced authority into his voice. "You gotta leave it, Billy. We're movin' out and movin' fast. In case you don't know it, the war is just over that next hill."

There was no need for Saunders to point out the direction; the artificial thunder of artillery grew frighteningly close. The ground beneath their feet heaved and trembled with the impact of a hundred, a thousand shells. Smoke burned the eyes and hung suspended above the trees.

Much to his credit and the sergeant's relief, Nelson offered no arguments.

Billy followed Littlejohn back to where the dead German lay, a fresh dusting of snow obscuring the face, masking the identity, the humanity of the enemy. Opening out the knapsack, Billy gently placed the little animal back inside. Naturally it attempted to crawl out, eager for warmth and companionship. Billy looked up at his friend, tears blurring his vision. "It ain't his fault, Littlejohn. It ain't fair."

Littlejohn grabbed Nelson by the sleeve of his jacket and hauled the boy to his feet. "You go on, Billy. I'll take care of the kitty."

Nelson's eyes widened as he hitched his rifle up onto his shoulder. "You ain't gonna…you won't…?"

Disgusted, Littlejohn swore under his breath. "Don't be stupid. Course I wouldn't…what kind a man do you think I am anyhow?" He shoved Billy toward the waiting squad. "I'll take care of it. You go on now before the Sarge decides to get mad."

In the days that followed Saunders forgot the incident with the kitten. He forgot what it was like to sleep, to eat, to be warm, to be unafraid. He forgot what it was like to live any way other than in an all out fight to survive. He forgot what it felt like to be human.

December 25th, l944

Pale winter sunlight creeping in through the holes in the makeshift canvas ceiling woke Saunders with a nasty start. He listened, expecting to hear at the very least small arms fire if not the monotonous artillery barrage of mornings past. He heard only the silence of the forest.

Littlejohn struggled to his feet, his tall frame bent nearly in half in the low shelter. When Saunders looked questioningly up at him, the big man shrugged. "Call a nature, Sarge."

Saunders nodded and Littlejohn clambered out of the relative warmth of the hole and out into the light.

Stiff from tight quarters and torn aching muscles, Saunders got to his feet. Pushing aside the canvas he breathed in the incredibly frigid air, stifling an urge to cough as the cold stuff stung his lungs. As he scanned the carnage of blackened trees standing naked against a shattered backdrop of the once beautiful, almost ethereal woodland, helmeted heads popped up from the ground around him like so many curious prairie dogs.

From the closest shell hole Doc whispered a greeting. "Merry Christmas, Sarge."

So that was it. That was why no shelling, no small arms fire. Saunders returned the greeting, tentatively. "Merry Christmas, Doc."

Caje popped up next to the medic – the white bandage across his forehead in stark contrast to the dark hair and blackened eyes, yet the Cajun smiled broadly. "Merry Christmas, Sarge!"

"Merry Christmas, Caje," Saunders replied. "Uh, Doc…how's Brockmeyer doing?" He was almost afraid to ask.

"Okay, Sarge. He's doin' okay," the medic replied.

Doc wasn't much of a liar and it was easy for Saunders to see through the thinly veiled pretense. "Tell him…tell him Merry Christmas from the rest of us. Okay?"

Doc nodded. "I'll do that."

The sound of Littlejohn's booming voice sending out greetings of the day reached Saunders before the PFC's large form exited the treeline. Saunders raised his eyes skyward. If Littlejohn thought he was whispering he was sadly mistaken. The big man eased past Saunders and back down into the cramped shelter, careful not to tread on his fellow occupants.

Saunders sank back into the hole and was met with smiles and warm wishes. Kirby held out a smoke – the last one in the pack and probably his last pack to boot.

The sergeant took the cigarette and lit up, inhaling deeply, gratefully before passing it back to Kirby who also took a single long drag. Both Littlejohn and Billy passed so it was left to Saunders and Kirby to finish the Lucky, which they did with obvious satisfaction.

Nelson fumbled inside his coat with a bandaged hand and pulled out a battered bar of Belgian chocolate, its wrapper torn, but the contents whole. "I got it from a girl – a girl in that first town we came to once we crossed the border. I been savin' it for today."

At the low wolf whistles and assorted jokes at his expense, an especially lewd example from whom else but Kirby, Billy blushed bright crimson. "Aw, it wasn't like that and you know it!" He broke off three squares and tucked them into a pocket before passing the bar around. "For Doc and Caje… and Brockmeyer," he explained.

Next it was Littlejohn's turn. From inside his coat he retrieved what appeared to be a thick pair of rolled up socks. These he handed to Billy.

Although Nelson smiled he shook his head. "I can't take your last pair a socks, Littlejohn!"

"Just shut up and take 'em!" The big man insisted, grinning.

Kirby chimed in with his two cents' worth. "Yeah, go on, kid, take 'em for Pete's sake!"

Billy fumbled at the wool, finally separating the stockings. But something wasn't quite right. Filling the entire foot of one of the hose was something warm and wriggling. A smile started at Nelson's eyes and soon encompassed his entire face; he grinned literally from ear to ear.

"I knew you couldn't do it, Littlejohn! I knew it!" Grabbing the toe of the sock Billy gently shook loose the contents. The tiny kitten dropped into the boy's lap, its striped fur all whichaway, its yellow eyes wide in the gloom. Within seconds it settled itself into a compact ball, tucked its sharp nose beneath its paws and fell contentedly asleep in the young soldier's lap.

"I shoved him tight inside my sock and pushed him deep into the kraut's knapsack. I hoped he'd stay put. When I went back for him this morning, there he was! Bet he's hungry as all get out, though!" Littlejohn rubbed the kitten gently behind one ear. The ear twitched, but the little cat slept on, unperturbed.

A sudden shadow fell across Nelson's face. He glanced anxiously at Saunders. "But, Sarge…nothin's changed, nothin' at all! We ain't moved two hundred yards from where we started… I can't keep him."

The canvas flap of the shelter's roof was thrown back and Lieutenant Hanley squinted down at the gathered squad members. "Merry Christmas, Sergeant…men."

Saunders' finger dropped away from the trigger of his Thompson as he released a held breath. "Lieutenant, maybe you better make it a point to knock around here."

Besides the rather intimidating barrel of the sergeant's Tommy gun, Hanley also got a good look at the working ends of two Garands and a BAR. "Point taken, Saunders." Hanley grinned, "But as I was saying before being so rudely interrupted…Merry Christmas!"

A chorus of well wishes were tossed back at the officer whose rare grin turned into an even rarer full blown smile. "I've got a gift for you…for us all. We've been relieved. The 3rd Army broke through late last night. We're pulling back at 0730. Don't bother with breakfast…"

Saunders thought that was a pretty good joke on Hanley's part since the men had been out of rations for 24 hours and on half rations for two days previous.

"Don't bother with breakfast because hot food will be waiting, hot food, hot showers and warm blankets, back in that little town we passed through several days back." Hanley rubbed at the unaccustomed stubble darkening cheeks and chin, "Seems like weeks ago instead of days….anyhow, pack it in, Saunders. I'll see you in," the officer checked his watch, "exactly a half hour, and again, Merry Christmas."

Hanley disappeared and Saunders leaned back and closed his eyes. _Merry Christmas for sure! _

"Hooray for ole Georgie Patton!" Kirby crowed. "I wanna shake that man's hand!"

"Like you'll ever get the chance to do that," Littlejohn quipped while bits of candy wrapper and other debris rained down onto Kirby like manmade snowflakes courtesy of his companions.

Kirby brushed the 'snow' from his shoulders. "Hey! Since we're headin' back to the town where Billy met that girlfriend a his…! Hey! Maybe she's got a sister!"

The group was in a festive mood indeed, a mood Saunders was loathe to break, but orders were orders and these he actually looked forward to obeying. "We're headin' out. Get your gear together."

Each man pasted the sergeant with a look expressing varying degrees of disbelief.

"Like we've got any gear TO pack up, Sarge! Geez!" Kirby moaned.

Saunders didn't need to look around the cramped space to realize the truth of that statement. "Just get ready to pull out," he replied, "and Littlejohn, since you're responsible for our new mascot, maybe you'd better carry it." He stopped short of saying Nelson didn't look like he could carry himself let alone the almost negligible weight of the little feline, though that fact was plain enough for anyone to see.

Pale, trembling from cold, hunger and pain, Nelson appeared fragile, an odd word to be sure when describing the usually healthy, robust youngster. Even the round baby face appeared thin and drawn, the cheeks bordering on gaunt. Yet Billy would have none of Saunders' suggestion that he not be allowed the privilege of carrying his Christmas gift.

When Littlejohn held out his hands, Nelson shook his head, clutching the kitten close. "Not on your life. This little guy stays with me! I ain't lettin' him outta my sight again!"

Littlejohn looked to Saunders with a shrug of the shoulders and a grin of defeat on his face.

The sergeant acquiesced. "Okay, Billy. He's yours."

With an arm up from Littlejohn Nelson got unsteadily to his feet. Yet there was a smile on the boy's face as he tucked the small furry bundle inside his coat, a smile warm enough to melt through the cold and the misery of the past days, one warm enough to make Saunders believe it might really be Christmas.

The non-com turned away, allowing himself the briefest of moments to think, to remember, to recall the joy of other Christmas days. When he turned back to his men he was again the soldier, the sergeant. "Saddle up. It's time."

END


	2. Chapter 2

Just Another Innocent Victim, Part 2

The Ardennes, Christmas, 1944

"What's the matter, Billy? You okay?" Littlejohn hunkered down in the snow next to his pal, worry lines etched into his wind-burned face. He rested a gloved hand on the boy's trembling shoulder.

"Just tired is all, Littlejohn. Just tired…gimme a minute." Billy closed his eyes and his head nodded against his breast.

"Sarge?" Littlejohn called softly, hesitant to raise his voice in the still of the forest, so still, so quiet after the on-going battle that had raged going on two long, unending weeks.

Saunders moved forward, his steps leaden, exhaustion etched into every line, and there were many, of the careworn face. He took in the situation and called a five minute halt. Before him, in a line that wavered and snaked out in a ragged, undisciplined formation, the squad members, looking like puppets with suddenly severed strings, dropped to the ground as one.

In the dull gray winter overcast Saunders realized the men, his men, looked as dull, as gray as the overcast sky, each individual soldier a dark unmoving blot on the white snow. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, but the image remained. He, too, dropped into a crouch, conserving what little of his energy remained and for the briefest of moments, for seconds really, he drifted off to sleep. Waking with a start he checked his watch, angling it to catch what little light there was. The five minutes were up. It was time to move, move before they all slept, slept and froze to death and it would be his fault.

Saunders rose stiffly, painfully to his feet, tapping Littlejohn on the shoulder, "Get Billy up."

The big soldier nodded, too tired even to acknowledge the order. With one beefy hand beneath the boy's arm he levered Nelson to his feet. Saunders looked into Billy's face and felt an ugly premonition. Nelson, thin almost beyond recognition, large eyes deeply sunken into their sockets, lips blue from cold, resembled nothing if not a walking corpse. Saunders shivered.

The squad moved forward at a crawl. Even knowing what lay ahead, warm shelter, a hot meal, uninterrupted sleep, even knowing that did not make the leaden steps any easier, the exhaustion less overwhelming.

A single ray of sunlight pierced the thick cloud cover. Saunders angled his head for a look, blinking at the brightness as he followed the light from heaven to earth. For a moment it made him think of the Christmas story – the birth of the Savior, the Wise Men following the one star as it moved across the sky to point out the place where the Child was born.

"Christmas," he muttered and then he smiled, briefly and to himself, "Christmas."

Kirby slogged past the sergeant, but turned at the sound of the non-com's voice. "Huh? You say somethin', Sarge?"

"No…nothing important, Kirby," Saunders motioned forward. "I think the lieutenant signaled a stop. Maybe we're there."

Kirby appeared puzzled. "_There_ where, Sarge?" he asked, sniffling back a runny nose.

If Saunders wasn't so completely drained himself, of emotion, of the ability to think straight, then maybe Kirby's stupor would've concerned him. As it was, he only shrugged it off. "There…out of the war."

The PFC shook his head. "Yeah, sure, Sarge. Just like there ain't no Santy Claus…there ain't no such place as 'outta the war.' You oughta know that."

Again Saunders motioned forward. "We won't know that unless we actually get there and we'll never get there if you don't move out."

Chin tucked into his jacket, helmet pulled down tight, BAR cradled across his arm, Kirby pushed ahead.

Saunders looked back, checking to be certain he was the last man in line. Mentally he checked off the squad members. Satisfied he was indeed the last he moved out, slowly, placing each foot into the deep impression Kirby's boots had made - anything to make walking easier, anything to conserve strength.

Lieutenant Hanley had indeed located 'there.' Nestled on the outskirts of a small village, a village the squad had passed through on its way to the front, the tiny homestead was a haven to the war-weary soldiers.

Once inside Saunders located a spot against a wall and dropped his gear heavily to the wooden floor. More than anything he wanted to sink down next to it and stretch out, but Hanley motioned him over; there were introductions to be made. Saunders removed his helmet and made a valiant attempt to smooth out his tousled hair, succeeding after a fashion. However, all attempts to straighten the wrinkled, tattered jacket over the equally wrinkled and tattered uniform were useless.

"Sergeant Saunders," Hanley said, his usually smooth baritone rough-edged from worry and lack of sleep, "these are our hosts, Jean and Marie Pfeiffer."

Saunders pulled off a glove and offered his hand to Mr. Pfeiffer. "Pleased to meet you, sir" he said as he found his cold fingers clasped in a strong warm grip, "And Mrs. Pfeiffer, thanks for taking us in, ma'am."

A smile lit the old gentleman's features. "It is nothing," he said in a heavily accented voice.

Saunders did not agree. "No, sir…it's everything," he said, thinking to himself - _years of war and going without yet they're willing, no, more than willing, eager, to share what little they have with us_. Saunders felt a renewed faith in human nature. It was about time.

Night fell quickly although the soldiers of King Company had little knowledge of that fact. Almost to a man they had fallen asleep as soon as their heads hit their makeshift pillows. Several roused enough to take in nourishment, a thick vegetable soup accompanied by a chunk of crusty homemade bread and hot tea.

Sandwiched in among his comrades, a fire roaring in the grate, his belly full of good food, Saunders gazed sleepily about the room. Something moved among the men, weaving between the forms, the steps slow and mincing, a vague wraith – a cat. Every so often it stopped to sniff, a booted foot, a hand, a half-opened pack. It seemed disappointed and moved on, disappearing into the shadows where the sergeant heard its plaintive meow, an unanswered call for…for what?

Chip Saunders closed his eyes and remembered back to when he was around seven or eight years old. One summer the old mother cat that lived next door had a litter of kittens. For a reason Chip could not comprehend, the woman who owned the cat got rid of all the kittens. Chip's mother had told her anxious son the kittens had been "taken care of" which led the little boy to believe the fuzzy still blind babies had been given away to good homes. Such was the naiveté of a child. Later of course he realized the woman had in all probability disposed of the helpless animals in some heinous manner. That old mother cat had cried so piteously for her lost young that the meowing, entering through the opened windows along with a hot summer breeze, had kept Chip awake for several nights running. He never forgot the sound. The cat here, in this tiny village so very far from Saunders' Illinois home, echoed exactly that same pitiful sense of loss.

Saunders turned his attention to Doc as the medic made his rounds. He thought perhaps he should go on over and ask the medic about his charges, but quickly gave up the idea. To gain his feet meant disturbing Kirby on his left and Caje on his right – both were snoring softly. And besides, he was just too comfortable to move. It seemed contentment bred laziness. Settling back he realized he could hear Doc just fine without moving. And then he realized there were some things he didn't really want to hear; Billy Nelson was dying.

Mostly it was Littlejohn's denial he heard. "No! That can't be! You're wrong, Doc."

Beside Saunders Caje mumbled in disturbed slumber; Kirby kept right on snoring.

Softer now, the tone incredulous, pleading, "no…you gotta be wrong, Doc. Not Billy. Not now. We been through so much together. Not now."

And then it was the medic's voice, soft, placating, helpless. "I've done everything I can do, Littlejohn. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Damn it," Saunders murmured. "Damn this lousy war."

Struggling stiffly to his feet he maneuvered through the sleeping soldiers to where the medic knelt. At his approach both Doc and Littlejohn looked up at him and he felt a sharp stab of their shared pain, a pain so deep it took his breath away. He glanced down at Billy Nelson.

Saunders had seen death before; he saw it now. Even the flickering warmth of the firelight could not disguise the advent of death as he saw it on Billy's face; the gray pallor of the skin, the sunken eyes, the short jerky breaths through drawn- back parted lips. Saunders shuddered. Yet even as he watched, Nelson appeared to rally, opening his eyes. He even smiled and the fingers of his right hand stroked the soft striped ball which rested on his chest. Saunders had missed the kitten (Littlejohn's Christmas gift to his friend) so quiet, so contented it lay beneath the boy's hand.

Doc rose wearily and motioned Littlejohn away, tugging gently at his sleeve when the big soldier seemed reluctant to leave. The young medic's sixth sense never failed to amaze Saunders; Billy needed to talk and it was to the sergeant.

The non-com crouched down, the better to hear Nelson's whisper.

"Sarge, Littlejohn…he doesn't understand. I asked him to take the kitten. He wouldn't. Said it was mine and I had to get better…to take care of it myself." Billy paused to catch his breath. "He doesn't understand…but you do, Sarge."

Saunders nodded. "I do, Billy."

The sergeant turned slightly to look into the nearby kitchen. On the floor beside the hulking old-fashioned stove sat a rather dilapidated wicker basket and in this improvised bed lay a single kitten. Somehow Saunders knew this kitten's siblings had not been "taken care of," but had probably succumbed to cold or starvation or having had the misfortune of being born in the wrong place at the wrong time. _Seems these people are just as good at taking in stray cats as they are stray soldiers, _he thought, and was glad.

While Saunders watched, the cat he'd seen earlier appeared at the kitchen doorway and trotted unerringly to the basket where she curled her long thin body around her baby. A vigorous cleaning ensued with the kitten attempting to fend off the assault of its mother's rough tongue. Presently the tiny feline settled into its mother's side, the little paws kneading furiously as it nursed.

Billy's weakening voice broke Saunders' concentration. "You take him, Sarge. You take him. Okay?"

Saunders bit his lip, hard; his eyes burned and he rubbed a sleeve back across them. It did no good. "There's somebody better than me to take care of your kitten, Billy, somebody who knows a lot more about such things than I ever could. Do you trust me?"

A feverish light burned from young Nelson's eyes, a too bright light, a soon to be extinguished light. The boy solemnly nodded. "I trust you, Sarge…always."

Saunders got to his feet and walked the few steps into the kitchen. Bending down he stroked the cat's shabby fur. She looked up at him, her green eyes full of trust. Gently disengaging the kitten, Saunders lifted the cat into his arms. She did not protest. Back at Billy's side, Saunders introduced cat to kitten. At first the cat seemed somewhat wary of the small striped stranger, but her distrust was momentary as the kitten woke from his nap, stretched fore and aft and made a beeline toward her. Tentatively at first, then with determination, the cat began her cleaning ritual. Within seconds the sound of the kitten's purring could be heard over the crackling fire in the grate and even above the snoring of the men.

Billy's brief delighted grin warmed Saunders and he felt his idea had been a success for all concerned parties. He returned the cat and her adopted offspring to the warmth of the wicker basket where mother and kittens got down to the business of being cats.

Though he was gone only moments he returned to Nelson's side too late. Doc pulled the blanket up to cover the boy's face and Saunders couldn't help but notice Billy's expression in death was one of total peace. For that Saunders gave thanks. There were a few words of comfort to Littlejohn and to Doc who'd done his best in a no-win situation where too little too late could not possibly make up for weeks of deprivation, cold and almost unimaginable suffering.

Suddenly it was all Chip Saunders could do to make it to his pallet where he slumped back against the wall. Striking a match he checked his watch, noting the time to be 12:14 am, December the 26th. He didn't know why exactly, but it seemed terribly important to him that he would not have to write Billy's mother to say her son had died on Christmas. The match burned down into his fingers yet he hardly felt the pain. Slipping down he rested his head on one bent arm and closed his eyes.

END


End file.
